


Remember Rio; or, What is Love

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 11:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19083880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Castiel has some hesitations early on in your relationship. Thankfully Dean is there to kick him in the ass. One confused celestial, non-explicit talk about sex, cowboys, and kisses.





	Remember Rio; or, What is Love

Dean hoists a dry-rot ridden wooden box to waist-level and hurls it unceremoniously at the floor. The container collapses in on itself upon impact, contents skittering amok in a cloudburst of dust. 

Several of the larger knickknacks cease their tumble at Castiel’s feet. He doesn’t bother to look down, too absorbed in inner turmoil of thought to pay any heed to them or Dean’s growing frustration. 

The hunter isn’t annoyed about the frantic search through someone else’s collection of crap, it’s in the job description. What he is annoyed about is the angel’s brooding. And Cas happens to still be standing in the exact same spot he dallied in the last time Dean turned around from his present task of tossing a storage shelf in this dimly lit basement in search of some a cursed trinket Sam said they absolutely positively needed to destroy to save the world. Dean has as yet unspoken reservations about the merit’s of his brother’s claim and the moping celestial both. He picks up a delicate vase next – an intricate pattern of pink flowers and thin bright green vines laces the rim – and intentionally drops it arching a speculative brow when the angel doesn’t so much as flinch at the tinkle of shattering porcelain. 

Boiling impatience pries apart the bite of the hunter’s tongue. “What the hell, man?” he grumbles. “Are you planning to just stand there all night or are you gonna help me find this damn totem?”

Cas blinks, blues resolving into focus on his friend. “Sorry, I was thinking about the other night.” The other night in question being the night of your third official date with the angel and the very same night you jumped his celestially articulated bones only to have him proceed to politely excuse himself mid-makeout session just when things got heated enough to warrant the peeling off of clothing, leaving you winded, wanton, and clutching his trench coat.

“Come on, you’ve been thinking for three days about something that requires zero thought and all the action.” Dean quells a reflexive roll of his greens, stepping over the glittering shards to clasp him roughly by the shoulder. “What are you so worried about anyway? You’ve done the deed before. With that reaper-” Dean scratches at his chin. “Amy, no-”

The angel respires a beleaguered sigh as Dean runs through a list of potential names. Cas has been trying to winnow down the reasons why he fled for days. It’s not because he’s a fully-functional powered-up angel of the Lord again and all the supposed sexlessness that formality entails. He’s equipped to satisfy a partner in every way a human can, and divinely more. He’s definitely physically attracted to you, so his vessel becoming aroused isn’t a barrier. He wants to please you any way he can, and he understands it’s clear you want to take the relationship to the next step in pursuit of that pleasure. No matter how much he thinks about it, he can’t quite pinpoint the source of his hesitation. 

“April!” Dean hits on the correct name with an enthusiastic note.

Cas glares – April not being an entirely pleasant memory considering she killed him.

“What?” Dean shrugs, expression wholly unapologetic in amusement. “For Chuck’s sake, what’s there to think about? It’s not a freaking apocalypse. No one’s life is in danger. It’s just sex.”

“It’s different.” Cas’ jaw tenses around the words. “With April, it was _just sex_. With Y/N, it’s … _different_.” He repeats himself for lack of a better descriptor.

“Different how?” Dean squints, closely examining the angel’s stymied expression. He interprets therein the folds of his brow a light bulb revelation. “Well smack my ass and call me Sally, you’re in love!” Dean exclaims, overly triumphant in the revelation.

Cas’ gaze startles wide, creating a mountain-like crag of creases across the ridge of his forehead, then narrows precipitously into the softer ill-defined flatland of genuine bewilderment. The part about loving you is the least confusing aspect of the statement and he accepts it without qualm – with a passive wave of relief even in response to the exact sort of different he could not explain a mere moment before – the reason for the rest of the hands-on proposition to slap Dean’s derrière whilst referring to him as Sally is beyond angelic comprehension. “Why would I-”

“Shut up.” Dean interjects, holding up a quieting finger, halting the inevitable query of why Dean would require Cas to do any of the aforementioned buttock spanking and name-calling and whether this is the appropriate time or place for such an activity.

You choose that instant to mosey on into the dank cellar scene. Cas and Dean bickering like an old married couple about what you assume to be utter nonsense is nothing new; you’d be worried if they weren’t verbally sparring, static silence on either of their parts rarely bodes well. “Whatcha guys talkin’ ‘bout?” you ask with vague disinterest, surveying the mess for any sign of the totem.

Cas casts Dean a swimmingly deep blue puppy-eyed plea to say nothing.

Dean ignores the appeal. The hunter’s eyes twinkle more than they have right to in the poorly illumined basement; a confident smirk creeps across his face. Bulky biceps tighten the fabric of his grey Henley shirt as he crosses his arms in preparation for the unsolicited relational pot stirring in which he is about to partake. “Sex,” he states, louder than necessary; the sharpness of the single syllable slices the humidly heavy atmosphere; the thick foundation of the walls absorbs any attempted reverberation.

“Nothing,” Cas’ simultaneous utterance muddles Dean’s answer; the decibel of his voice sinks to an Earth-quaking grumble. Blues taking on a chagrinned shade, he shoots his friend a betrayed glower.

Re-crossing his limbs, Dean scowls in recrimination. “Really? You were feeling _different_ about it minute ago. And now … nothing?”

Your mouth gapes into the shape of an unspoken _oh_. This, _this_ could explain why Cas bolted the other night and hasn’t been able to look you in the eyes since let alone stay in the same room alone with you for more than an awkward minute. You always had your suspicions about their so-called profound bond and standing on the outside looking in it appears you’ve interrupted the discussion of a secretive tryst half of the liaison isn’t ready to openly chat about. “Maybe I should leave you two alone then,” you mutter, failing to disguise the disillusionment lowering your tone.

“You should really stay for this, sweetheart,” Dean reassures, reaching out to catch you by the wrist before you can turn to leave. “It involves you.”

You glance from his gleaming greens to his clutching fingers to Cas’ averted blues and back. You snort a light laugh, one imbed with false lightness of spirit in affront to the crush of disappointment you feel, and swat Dean’s gentle grip loose. You pursue the path of lashing out in lieu of letting either of them see your pain. “Look Dean-o, I don’t care what you think I said when we split that bottle of tequila last summer in Rio and passed out drunk on the balcony, I’m not interested in a cowboy themed threesome with you, or anyone else for that matter.” You direct the last bit at the angel who seems set on stolidly avoiding the interaction in favor of staring at the dusty-beamed ceiling.

Dean’s mouth mutely opens and closes in a vain attempt to formulate a rebuff; his cheeks warm to a freckled tint of pink. He doesn’t remember sharing that particular frolic of a fantasy with you, but also acknowledges with a bob of his head and a swallowed _hmm_ that it sounds like something he could’ve admitted to in uninhibited drunken fervor. Because his best coping skill for embarrassment involves embracing the injurious fact with bombastic confidence, he accepts your personally revealing slight in Dean-branded stride. “First off little lady, you have no idea what you’re missing out on. And secondly,” he begins to recall several small snippets of detail, “it wasn’t tequila, it was RumChata.”

Your eyebrows lift. “That’s your take away from that night?”

“Yes. That, and your apparent fetish for ass-less chaps.”

It’s your fault for daring him to remember to stage his self-defense. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“Happy to oblige.” Dean takes a swaggering stride backward and bows. “I’ll leave you two to _talk_.” His pointed glare toward Cas effectively wields the departing verb as a strong suggestion and prompts you to recall the angel of your affection has been standing there wordlessly observing the entire exchange.

Conversationally contagious blush accosting your cheeks now, you cede to a compulsion to fill the weighty silence between you and the seraph with a throaty hum that never quite evolves into intelligible speech.

“I’m sorry.” Cas speaks first.

You peer up from studying your shoes, shod toes poking the sole of the foot opposite, to take in his fondly tempered features. The intensity of tenderness conveyed in his steady regard somersaults your stomach and frees a flock of butterflies whose fluttering wings unfold inside out to caress your skin with a pleasant shiver; these three days past you missed this sensation only he causes and which you hope never to grow accustomed to.

Given he failed to comprehend the bulk of the interaction he just witnessed, he steps nearer and clarifies for both your sakes the part for which he is apologetic. “Sorry about leaving so suddenly the other night when there was, uh, an expectation of” –his hands seek refuge in his pockets “-um, _intimacy_.”

“Oh, Cas” –you dive into the hooks of his arms, wrapping the rigid pillar of his vessel in a hug while keeping a carefully calculated platonic distance of a little over an inch between the press of your bodies “-there’s no expectation. No pressure. I just thought, I mean, you seemed into it so I-”

Fingers circling your shoulders, he dips you backward in order to meet your gaze as he speaks, “I was – _am_ – ‘into it,’ as you say. I’ve thought of little else since that night except for how I might explain my retreat and earn your forgiveness.” 

“There’s nothing to forgive.” You assuage his worry, assuming the explanation is forthcoming.

Broad palms smoothing to your spine, he pulls your pliant body close to banish the cushion of non-romantic space you created solely for his benefit and for which he determines there is no obvious benefit. Kissing first the top of your head, he perches his chin upon your lovingly consecrated crown. Exhaling a heated breath into your scalp, his lips move against the silken locks of your hair. “Dean, in his way, helped me understand a feeling I’ve struggled to identify. When it peaked that night – overwhelming, exhilarating, the height of a foreign precipice I could equate only with a sense of uncontrollable falling – I feared the unknown dangers it posed to you.”

“To _us_ ,” you correct. “We’re either together in this, or we’re-”

“Us,” he firmly agrees before you can finish; the hint of a smile touches his stoic pout. 

Wriggling in his delightfully confining grasp, you wind your arms around his neck; anchoring your wandering fingers into the chestnut curls overlying his nape, you guide his forehead down to rest against yours. You know the feeling well to which he alluded; the terror, too, of a new love.

“Love,” he echoes the sentiment coloring your mind. “Yes, _love_.”

You shudder in surprise against the perceived incursion upon your thoughts and scold him with a mock-scowl.

Again seeking absolution, he teases you with the feathery brush of a kiss upon the side of your mouth; gratitude wells in his angelic heart when you give chase to his lips in order to seal and solidify your devotion despite his missteps; missteps of which he is certain there will be many yet to come.


End file.
